


The History of My Life Until Now

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Gen, Grief, Kidlock, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet one night in the park and the rest is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The History of My Life Until Now

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those ideas that came into my head and could only be exorcised by writing it down. I rather like the way it came out, so hope you all do as well. As always, let me know!
> 
> If anybody reading this is going to be at 221B Con, be sure to search me out.

He made his plans carefully. This would not be the first time they had made a middle of the night escape, but it was by far the most important. Without anyone noticing [even Mycroft, which was a bit surprising. Except that of late, Mycroft seemed to have any time at all for his younger brother.], he managed to tuck a small blanket, a bottle of still water, and two varieties of biscuits [oat digestives and ginger] into his school knapsack. After testing the batteries, he added a torch and felt ready. Then it was just a matter of waiting until all was dark and quiet in the house.

When it finally seemed safe, they left the bedroom and crept silently down the back staircase. He led the way through the kitchen and out the garden door. They were free.

It was a very slow journey because his companion could not go faster. But that was fine. As they walked through the mostly silent streets, Sherlock talked, saying nothing that was very important. Well, things that were important to no one save the two of them at least.

He recalled memories of their life together, back to the day they met, which Sherlock only really knew through family anecdotes, of course. Both of them were too young then to understand anything about it. Still, somehow, both knew immediately that they would love one another forever. Now as much of London slept around them, Sherlock narrated some of their best adventures. Several times during the trip, they paused to rest for a few moments. Those familiar with his usual prickly nature would have been surprised by the tender care he was displaying. 

Finally they reached the gates of the park, closed now of course, but it was far from the fist time that he had used the small tool always in his pocket to snap a lock. From the entrance, it was only a short walk to the almost hidden grotto that was their destination. There was a bright moon overhead and further illumination came from a single streetlamp nearby.

Sherlock spread the well-worn fuzzy blanket onto the floor and helped Redbeard to settle on top of it. He gave the panting dog a little water and part of a biscuit, which was ignored. Sherlock offered it once more before giving up with a sigh. Then he stretched out next to his dog and began to talk again.

*

The sound of breaking glass was so familiar that by this time John barely even flinched.

The raised voices had been such a constant soundtrack to his life that he didn’t even really hear the words anymore. Someday he expected one of his parents to kill the other and, if pressed, he could not have said if he cared very much at this point. Instead, he was only counting the years until he could escape his farce of a family. Maybe that made him a terrible person, but to him his attitude only seemed practical. He wanted to survive in case things might go better for him one day.

Harry was gone already, at fifteen too young to be living away from home, but content to ignore that fact [as did their parents] and happily shack up with her girlfriend.

John, at twelve, knew that he stood no chance on his own out in the world, so instead he mostly lived in his bedroom when forced to be in the house at all.

There was no sign of the intense conflagration downstairs ending any time soon, so John knew that he wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight. After a few more minutes, he grabbed his jacket, pulled on his trainers, and slipped out the window, shimmying down the trellis to the ground. Sometimes it was better to stay outside all night rather than just lie in the bed and listen. It was Friday, so at least there was no worrying about making it to school on time the next morning.

He had to be punctual every morning, to arrive at each class prepared, to never miss a rugby practice session, to smile and make everyone like him. There were scholarships at stake and he had some hope of getting one to a good prep school. With luck, maybe he could even be a boarder and escape the house long before uni, but he was afraid to count on that. So he tried very hard to do everything right.

He stopped at an all-night Tesco’s to buy a lemonade and Mars bar, then headed for the park. There was one dark corner of the fence that was broken down enough that he could climb over it; he often found that sitting all night on a hard wooden bench beat the hell out of spending the time listening to his parents drink and fight.

John liked the quiet of the park. It helped him think. Or maybe not to think. Whatever.

This night, however, and ironically because of that very quiet he cherished so, John could hear the soft murmur of a nearby voice. For just a moment, he froze, wondering if he were about to be mugged for his Mars bar. Moving slowly, he eased himself off the bench and walked around the hedge. There was a small grotto, almost a ruin actually, that he had never noticed before and sitting inside were a young boy and a dog.

The boy looked up at him with wide-eyed startlement.

*

Sherlock had honestly not noticed anyone approaching until the other boy was standing right in front of him. He forgave himself the lapse of attention, however, because all he cared about at the moment was Redbeard. To give himself a breath of time to recover, he frowned at the stranger. “Who are you?” he asked then.

The short blond boy did not seemed bothered by the frown, oddly. When Mycroft gave people the same expression, they were always a bit intimidated. Sherlock wondered if he should go the next step and sneer at the cheap blue jeans and slightly shrunken Tardis teeshirt. That was what Mycroft would have done and it would probably make this unwelcome boy go away.

But for some reason, Sherlock didn’t do that. Instead, he just looked at the intruder.

Who stepped closer and extended a hand. “My name is John Watson.”

Startled again, Sherlock found himself taking the offered hand and shaking it. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And this is my dog Redbeard.”

“Hello, Redbeard,” John said. Then he eyed Sherlock again. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“You shouldn’t be out here on your own this late,” was the stern response.

Sherlock huffed. “I’m taller than you.”

“But I’m older.” 

Sherlock ran his gaze over him with an unexpected directness. “Only…two years though, right?”

“How did you---?” John cut the question off as he looked again at the dog. His pale brows pulled together. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock snapped.

John sat on the other side of Redbeard. He lifted a hand, as if to stoke soft auburn fur, then paused and glanced a question at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded his permission.

A careful hand caressed Redbeard’s head. “His eyes look….foggy…”

“So what are you? Some kind of twelve-year-old veterinarian?” Sherlock knew his voice was sharp.

John shook his head. “No.” Then his shoulders straightened a little. “I’m going to be a doctor though.”

Sherlock sniffed.

They sat in silence for a few moments as John continued to pet the dog. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a Mars bar. He unwrapped it and carefully broke it into two equal parts.

Sherlock looked at the half being held out to him. “You don’t have to,” he said a bit awkwardly.

“Know that.” John replied placidly.

He took the candy. “Thank you.”

They ate and watched the dog, which just panted and drooled a bit.

“We ran away,” Sherlock said finally. “I needed to save him.”

John nodded as if that were no surprise.

“They want to kill him in the morning.” Sherlock blinked rapidly and finished the Mars bar.

“He is sick?”

Sherlock ignored that. He stared off into the darkness. “He was born the same day I was,” he said in a soft voice. “We have been best friends my whole life. His whole life.”

It didn’t seem as if John Watson, unlike most people, felt the need to speak just because he could. Instead, he twisted the top off the lemonade and took a swallow.

“He wakes me up every morning and I walk him for fourteen minutes. He likes bits of my egg at breakfast. Redbeard waits with me for the car that takes me to school and he is sitting at the gate in the afternoon when the car brings me back. Even in the rain or snow. Every day he is there waiting for me. We walk for an hour and then he sits with me while I do my schoolwork until dinner. Afterwards, he watches me do my experiments and I tell him what I’m doing and he thinks I am brilliant. We go out into the back garden before bed and then he helps me go to sleep.” Sherlock stopped finally and took a deep breath.

John swallowed the last of the lemonade and set the empty bottle on the floor.

Sherlock had his fingers tangled in the dog’s fur.

“What kind of experiments do you do?” John asked.

The unexpected question caught Sherlock by surprise before he realised that it was, in fact, the perfect thing for John to say and that probably no one else in the world would have said that exact thing. He narrowed his eyes and studied this boy who had suddenly appeared in the park and who seemed…well, sort of ideal, although Sherlock really had no idea what that even meant. He thought for a moment about whether or not to answer, but really there was no doubt that he would do so. “Right now I am doing a study of earthworms,” he said. “I have dissected twenty-seven so far.”

“Wow,” John said. “That’s really cool.”

Sherlock glanced at him quickly. “You think so?”

“Of course.”

“Most people think it’s weird.”

John grinned at him. “Nothing wrong with weird, in my opinion.”

Redbeard’s breathing turned a bit rapid for a moment, but then he settled again. Both of them were petting him now. There was a gap of silence between them.

It was finally John who spoke and he would never know where the words came from or why he was, for the first time ever, sharing them with another person. Especially a boy he did not know at all. “I am in the park at this hour because my family is crap. My parents are drunks who do nothing but scream at one another. My sister ran off to live with her girlfriend and left me behind. Some nights I just can’t stand to be there anymore and so I come here instead.”

“And you want to be a doctor,” Sherlock said after a moment. “So you can fix things.”

John stared at him, at the tumble of dark curls and the oddly coloured eyes. “You’re very clever, aren’t you, Sherlock Holmes?” he said with a faint smile.

“Actually, I am a genius. I’ve had the tests.” His words were not nearly as smug as they might have been. It was simply a statement of fact.

John just nodded.

Abruptly, Sherlock bent over and pressed his face into the top of Redbeard’s head. “My only friend,” he mumbled.

John opened his mouth to dispute that, but then he accepted the stark honesty in the words. And if anyone understood the whole friendless thing, it was John H. Watson. Oh, he had mates, blokes on the football team, or with whom he sat at the lunch table. But, of course, he could never ask anyone round and so he never went round to anyone else’s either. There was a wall between him and the rest of the world, but it seemed as if by climbing over the wall into the park he had also arrived in the odd and brilliant world of Sherlock Holmes. And that was fine. 

It was easy for him to see that this kid would have a hard time being mates with anyone.

Which John thought was a shame, because he seemed to be a really interesting sort of person and John would like to hang out with him.

When he blinked himself back into awareness, he saw Sherlock trying to feed a biscuit to the dog. But Redbeard was not interested.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered. “You haven’t eaten in two days.”

His only answer was a soft whimper.

Sherlock threw the biscuit into the bushes.

John waited a few moments, hoping that by saying what he really had to say he wouldn’t be ending any chance of getting to know this boy better. But there was really no choice, was there? A bloke had to do what was right “Sherlock,” he said finally. “You don’t want your friend to suffer, do you?”

Sherlock made a small sound that was not quite a sob. “No,” he said. “Redbeard doesn’t deserve that.”

“I think you need to take him home now.”

After nuzzling the dog for a bit, Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want me to come with you?” John offered.

“If you like.” The tone was not nearly as casual as the words.

Well, what John had actually meant with his offer was that he would walk Sherlock home, just to be sure that he and the dog made it safely. But when they finally arrived, there were lights on all over the house, despite the very early hour, and he found himself being introduced to a couple of worried parents as well as a bored-looking brother who was still in his pyjamas.

“This is my friend John,” Sherlock said carelessly. “He is coming with us when we take Redbeard to…when we take him.”

Truthfully, John might have demurred, but then he caught sight of the slight smirk on the brother’s face. “If that’s okay,” was what he said instead.

Apparently it was okay, if obviously a bit surprising to all concerned.

Mrs Holmes smiled at him. “Shall we call your---” she began, but then Sherlock stepped closer and spoke to her softly and quickly. Instead of what she had been going to say, she offered breakfast.

Which John rather devoured and Sherlock touched not at all. Well, except to snatch a bit of John’s egg and feed it to the dog lying at his feet. Redbeard ate it, but John thought it was more because he did not want to disappoint his companion rather than out of any desire for food.

John did not really know what he was expected to do except just be there. So he rode in the backseat of the car with Sherlock and the brother. He stood next to him as goodbyes were said, and when Sherlock reached for his hand, he gripped the other boy’s fingers tightly. Mrs Holmes cried, Mr Holmes was obviously grieved, even Mycroft was rather pale.

No one spoke all the way back to the house and John refused to go inside again, mumbling that he should go home, although he didn’t want to have to confront the mess that surely waited for him there. But it wouldn’t get any better as the day went on. Sherlock walked with him out to the front gate and they stood there awkwardly for a moment.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock finally said. He was still looking shattered and his eyes seemed to glisten with tears that he refused to shed.

John shrugged. He reached into his pocket and took out the pen, then realised that he had no paper. Silently, Sherlock held out his hand and John scribbled the phone number in the palm. He wondered what to say next and ended up just giving a brisk nod and walking away.

The rest of the weekend he kept waiting the phone to ring and was really hoping that it would. In part, because he was worried about Sherlock and truthfully also in part because he just wanted to talk to the other boy, but it never did ring. Well, except for the one time on Sunday afternoon. He raced to get to it before either of his parents could push up from where they were sprawled watching a football match on the telly. But when he picked up the receiver, there was only silence on the other end. Somehow John knew who it was anyway. ”Sherlock?” he said softly. The only response was a sort of choked off sob and then the connection was broken. 

John kept fretting and worrying about Sherlock. When Monday came, he could barely concentrate on his classes and, for the first time ever, he faked feeling ill and cut history, at the same time passing word to the team captain that he would not be at rugby practice. Then he caught a bus and rode it as close as he could get to his destination, walking the last bit until he was standing at the front gate of the Holmes residence. It was only a few minutes before a long black car pulled up and Sherlock climbed out.

The other boy just stood there for a moment, looking surprised. “John,” he said finally.

Now John felt a bit awkward. Was this a stupid thing to have done? Probably it was. “I wanted…just to meet you at the gate,” he said, feeling heat flood his face.

But instead of sneering or saying something rude, Sherlock moved closer to him. “Thank you, John,” he said quietly.

“Just being a mate,” John replied.

Sherlock took a deep breath and bit his bottom lip. “Would you like to come see my earthworms?” he asked.

John nodded, honestly feeling honoured by the invitation. He straightened his shoulders before following Sherlock into the house and up a long flight of carpeted stairs. For reasons he did not understand, this felt like a very important moment. Like something he should write a school essay about.

_John Watson’s Big Adventure_

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Better: _The Adventures of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes_

He liked that. 

*

_I knew I loved you before_  
I met you  
I think I dreamed you into life  
I knew I loved you before I met  
you  
I have been waiting all my life. 

-Savage Garden

 

****

**Author's Note:**

> This story actually came about after I read several interesting metas about what Redbeard could mean or what he actually signifies. Interesting, yes, but a part of me rather wanted to shout out "Why couldn't he just be a bloody dog!" So I wrote it.
> 
> One more thing: For those of you who enjoyed my Postcard Tales---I am going back to London in May and have already [blindly, of course] picked a postcard for each day. So be on the lookout for The Postcard Tales II….


End file.
